Shades of Gray in Candlelight
by Writeous
Summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale take refuge in an abandoned church.


Crowley, as a general rule, despises churches. Especially ones like these: tall enough that every sound reverberates with echoes upon echoes, the ceiling high enough to create chilling drafts even in the oppressive summer heat. They remind him of his childhood, kneeling in front of marble statues with his eyes open even as his mind raced, blasphemous questions curling on his tongue. Cast out, his mother would later call his dramatic exit. Freedom, he would haughtily correct.

It's different now. Everything is, so when Ezra shoves open the heavy wooden door with a grunt, Crowley doesn't think twice about staggering inside after him.

Crowley doubles forward as the door bangs shut behind them, leaning heavily over the first pew he can grab. He doesn't bother to check if the deep slash in his side is leaking blood through the hastily-applied gauze: he already knows. He doesn't have time to collapse right now, though, as much as he wants to. They have a perimeter to check, and relaxation is a luxury he has not been afforded in a very long time.

That doesn't stop Ezra from rushing to his side. "Crowley!" he says in alarm, hand hovering delicately over Crowley's back, afraid to aggravate the wound even as he frets with worry. "Stay here, please. Let me - I'll look around for a bit, see if there's anything to worry about."

"No," Crowley says. "I'm fine, angel. Let me just-" he straightens with a considerable amount of effort, and is enormously pleased that he manages to not waver when standing upright. "See! Good to go. I'm not letting you explore this place _alone_. It's huge - it'll take you ages."

He's right: the church is cavernous. The length from the door to the altar would take a considerable time to examine alone, not to mention all of the nooks and crannies that are cloaked in shadow. With the only light coming from the moon filtering through the high windows, there are so many things that could be hiding in the darkness. Crowley wasn't going to let Ezra go against them alone.

"I - alright," Ezra says, mouth still turned downwards in disapproval. They've only known each other for less than a month, but they already have learned the tone of each other's voices, their boundaries, and their overwhelming stubbornness. Nevertheless, he shoulders Crowley's duffle alongside his own backpack. He tilts his chin at Crowley, as if daring him to speak up against it. Crowley has to concede: he's absolutely no use to either of them more injured than he currently is, and Ezra is much stronger than he looks.

"Right," Crowley says. "You take the left side and I'll take the right? Give a shout if anything moves?"

Ezra nods, gripping his sword. It's solid steel and can slash through almost anything like its tissue paper, and Crowley had never felt so jealous in his life when Ezra had managed to yank it away from Michael's weakening grip. It suits him well. Crowley, for his part, is armed with only a nail-studded baseball bat and a car crank. Not the best weapons against an army of the undead, but he's been making it work.

"Flashlights?" Ezra asks, a bit hesitant. Their batteries are precious, and they can't afford to use them needlessly.

The dark corners are deep and menacing, pitch black on stone. Crowley shivers, not just from the cold. "Best do, yeah."

He barely manages to catch the flashlight with his left hand, his right side aching at the movement. Crowley shakily flicks the switch, throwing Ezra into sharp vision. He raises a hand against the sudden light and Crowley fumbles to point it elsewhere. He's just slow enough to get his first good look at Ezra since the absolute disaster that the last hour had been.

There's blood still matted in his blonde hair, rusted red against white, and a jagged scratch cutting across his cheek. Crowley can't remember when he got it. Was it during the zombie ambush at the pharmacy? Crowley was a bit out of it at the time, more focused on not bleeding out from the festering claw wounds above his ribs. The bandage was hastily made, the twenty minutes of careful appliance thrown out the window when Ligur began foaming at the mouth, the previously-hidden bite mark on his leg becoming distressingly clear. Sandalphon followed not long after, proving Gabriel's holier-than-thou attitude wrong that his small group of survivors was a much purer clan than Beelzebub's. Not so shocking - turns out anyone could be a coward during the end of the world.

Like Crowley, for instance. The moment he'd realized that their ugly conglomerate of survivors was about to collapse in a gory implosion, he'd grabbed Ezra's hand and _ran_.

In the present, once again with hidden features, Ezra points his own light into the corner, illuminating the polished stone. "Right," he says. "On with it, then."

Crowley spends the next twenty minutes inspecting the church with laser focus, whipping his light at the faintest of movements. It's eerie - the stained glass windows are boarded up with wooden planks, nailed neatly against the window panes in straight lines. More planks leant against the walls, all cut the same uniform length, as if waiting to be posted as well. Crowley nudges one of the planks with his shoe and winces as it clatters noisily to the ground, kicking up a pile of dust as it lands. Ezra yelps in response, and both sounds echo loudly around them.

Crowley clears his throat awkwardly in the ensuing silence. "Sorry."

"No - no problem," Ezra says. They stare at each other. "Any - any - anyway," Ezra continues shakily. He shines his light at the boarded glass windows. "The windows have been boarded up already but there's - have you seen this? It's food. A whole stockpile of it."

"What?" Crowley cuts across the pews to join Ezra. If there was anything sleeping in the church, they would definitely be awake by now.

"Non-perishables. Everything canned." Ezra points his flashlight at a space near the altar. Crowley brings his own to join it. The two beams of light starkly illuminate a small mountain of cans. The labels were faded with age, but Crowley could see the stacks upon stacks of canned peas, beans, and fruit, along with piles of granola bars, jars of peanut butter, packets of crackers and nuts, and-

"Water!" Crowley says gleefully. "They've got water! _We've_ got water!"

"Oh, thank the lord."

Ezra drops their bags onto a pew and collapses to his knees by the pile. He begins sorting them, near reverent. Crowley allows himself to fall onto the nearest pew, exhaustion hitting him after the promise of sustenance in the near future. Old sustenance, true, nasty in the way that's made for survival rather than taste -

"Wait," Crowley says. He sits up with some struggle. "Wait, Ezra."

"What?"

"Why's'it here?"

Ezra stiffens. "What?"

"The food and planks and stuff. Churches aren't usually all boarded up and stocked with food and water, are they? Someone's been hiding out here."

"I don't - where are they, then?" Ezra scrabbles to his feet, food forgotten as he swivels the flashlight around, as if a figure would appear in the wildly swerving beam.

"The door - the door, was it unlocked?" Crowley asks, craning his neck.

"Yes. There's a bolt, I saw, but it was open when we came in, and I closed it behind us. They're gone now, whoever they were."

"Why didn't they take anything with them? If they're planning on coming back, why just leave everything out in the open?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Crowley points his own flashlight towards the ceiling. The spires go up and up and up, perfect acoustics for the ghosts of hymnals. "This place is built like a fortress. Something happen to it?"

"I don't - I didn't _see _anything, did you?"

"No."

There's total quiet, save for the sound of their own heavy breathing. "It's safe enough for now, I think. Mystery for tomorrow," Crowley says. He runs a hand through his hair, the natural oils making it stick up in random directions.

"Right so," Ezra agrees. "I'm going to light the altar, save these batteries." Crowley half-rises to help but is stopped by Ezra's cold look. "You, stay there. You're running on fumes as is."

Ezra very firmly does not comment even as he definitely overhears the way Crowley repeats the words mockingly. He adds, "Can't just do nothing, you know."

"I _know_ that," Ezra says. There was a quiet scrape as he managed to get a match alight. Soon after the scent of incense wafts into the air. The golden light grew steadily brighter as Ezra lit more candles. Crowley flicks his flashlight off, allowing the soft glow to replace the harsh white beam. "I just need you to stay still until I can replace your bandages. After, I'm putting you to work setting up our supplies."

Crowley groans dramatically and flops his head into his hand. "I regret saying anything. Truly, I am but a cripple. Me, do work? In this state?"

"Oh, hush," but Crowley can practically hear the smile in Ezra's voice when he says it.

The time passes quickly after that, with a "I know your shirt was dark, but the amount of blood that it can hide is _ridiculous_. How are you still standing?" and "Peanut butter is delicious. Imagine if we had jam to go with it, and eggs and toast and milk - no, hot chocolate! - and oh, wouldn't that be nice?" and "My dear, if you don't start drinking more _I will_ force you to, don't think I won't." and, quite memorably, "There's a bathroom in this place! With running water!"

Sleep has to come eventually, even though the peak of the window shows that the sky is significantly lighter than it had been when they'd first entered. Outside, they can hear distant, animalistic groans. It's putting Crowley on edge.

They have to sleep on separate pews, and he can't see Ezra when they lie down. That puts him on edge too.

It must not sit well with Ezra either. "Aziraphale," he breaks the delicate silence. The word echoes against the walls, a thousand trumpets.

"What?" Crowley asks.

"That's my name," Ezra says. "My full name is Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeats slowly, taking his time with each syllable. "It's nice. Why don't you go by it?"

"Too long," Ezra - Aziraphale - says. "Mispronunciation. And I was - ah - bullied during school. Not just for my name, mind, but it was something I was happy to drop."

Crowley knows. The trick to dealing with bullies is appearing apathetic towards everything. Desperately, he misses his dark glasses. He had reluctantly traded them for the permanent use of his peripheral vision, a choice he often finds himself regretting.

"Why now?" Crowley asks, and it appears to have been the wrong thing to say, as Aziraphale's breath hitches. He tries again, "What changed?" He can guess.

"I - I don't know," Aziraphale says after a while. "I just wanted someone to know, I guess. In case anything _happens_. And if I wanted anyone to know it, it would be you."

"Oh," Crowley says, rather dumbly. "Can I - can I call you that? Aziraphale?"

"Yes. I would - I would rather like that."

"Okay."

They lapse into silence again, a tinge more awkward than earlier. Crowley wishes that he had something to offer as well, some equally intimate tid-bit of information that would show Aziraphale that he trusted him too. But there was nothing left to say. Slowly but surely, Crowley had been giving him everything since the day they'd first met.

"How'd you know this place would be safe?" he says instead. "Big, heavy church, but you didn't seem suspicious at all."

A pause. "Big, heavy church," Aziraphale repeats. "Lots of places to hide, but it's easily defendable. And, you know, it's a church."

"What?"

"Consecrated ground, you know. Any religious institution would have worked, I think, but this one came up first."

"What do you mean _consecrated ground_?"

"You know," Aziraphale seems vaguely uncomfortable now, "zombies are undead. It's unholy. I'm sure there's not a single religion that would allow anything like that. So, it's safe. They wouldn't dare enter."

"Who told you that? Gabriel?" The answering silence tells Crowley everything he needs to know. "Like he's such an expert."

"It's not like that," Aziraphale stresses. "You know how they used to say that you could take asylum in a place of worship? It's the same concept. They're safe."

"Didn't know zombies followed those sorts of etiquette."

"Why are you so against it? It's comforting, isn't it? Makes quite a lot of sense, if you ask me." Quiet. "You don't _believe_, is that it?"

"It's not -" Crowley is suddenly glad he's not looking at Aziraphale. "I mean, I don't _not_ believe. Closest I've come to is agnostic, really. Used to, though. When I was younger, I practically lived in my church."

"Really? I used to do that too, at my masjid. Don't go as often as I should nowadays, with university and all, but still." Aziraphale trails off. "What happened?"

Ah, Aziraphale gets to entrust his full name to Crowley, and Crowley gets to give him his sob story in return. Completely unfair, that. "Asked too many questions," he says simply. "That's all it took, really." He shifts uncomfortably on the pew, only a thinning layer of cushioning separating him from the hard wood seat. "My family didn't take too kindly to it. It's not like I don't believe in God; it's just that I didn't believe in Her the way they wanted me to."

"Oh, Crowley -"

"It's okay, though," Crowley's babbling a bit now, words tripping over each other as he stares blankly at the ceiling. "I'm fine. It's not like I really _needed_ them, anyway, and they weren't exactly torn up when I left, so -"

"_Crowley._"

"- it's alright, then. I haven't seen them in years. I'm over it. Old news."

"That doesn't mean it's okay!" Aziraphale says, affronted on Crowley's behalf. The misplaced concern causes a ghost of a smile to cross Crowley's face. "You didn't take everything at face value, and they thought that was a bad thing?"

"Angel, I'm honestly fine! It was a long time ago. Yes, it hurt. _Hurts_, whatever. But I'd rather be where I am now. Without their rules on me. Making my own decisions and all that."

"No, that's, no -" a shuffling noise comes from Aziraphale's direction, and Crowley cranes his neck to try and glimpse what's happening. "You're - _absolutely_ -"

"Aziraphale? What the devil are you _doing_?" He attempts to prop himself up on his elbow, but quickly gives up the endeavor when his ribs scream in protest. He's leveraged just long enough to see Aziraphale marching towards him with a determined scowl.

Aziraphale squeezes himself into the narrow space between Crowley's pew and the one in front. He places his hands on his hips, and his expression would seem almost comically upset if not for the serious glint in his deep blue eyes.

Crowley has to tilt his entire body to even be able to look at Aziraphale, looming over him. The position makes Crowley's skin crawl, so he arduously sits upright. Aziraphale just watches him, wordless, but the crease on his forehead begins to smooth as his face slowly morphs into concern. He puts his hands up to steady Crowley, who waves him off.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and launches into his spiel.

"Angel-" Crowley begins, but it goes aborted as Aziraphale continues speaking over him, trying valiantly to convince Crowley of his self-worth. He tries again, hand reaching out uselessly. "Angel-"

Aziraphale gives no sign of stopping so Crowley says, attempting to sound gentle but coming across more like a snap, "_Aziraphale_."

Aziraphale blinks down at him. "What?"

"I know all that, okay? You don't have to keep telling me." Crowley is exhausted, and he can tell Aziraphale is too by the dark bags under his eyes and stooped shoulders. "Go to bed, alright? _Sleep_, you know we both need to."

It's a dirty strategy to bring himself into the demand, and Aziraphale knows it by the disapproving scowl that wipes away from his face almost as soon as it arrives. "_Okay_," he says, briefly sounding more like a child than his attitude and age implies. A moment's hesitance, and then, "But, ah-"

"You should bring your cushion over here," Crowley says, trying not to sound as eager as he feels about the concept. "It won't be comfortable, but at least we'll be able to watch over each other."

He tries to think of it as a form of protection to tamper down the sudden feeling of selfishness, but the unbidden emotion completely evaporates when he sees the way Aziraphale lights up. "That's an excellent idea! Just let me get everything; I'll not be a moment."

Aziraphale disappears from Crowley's line of sight. He lets himself collapse fully back onto his own seat, closing his eyes with relief as his side stops screaming from the effort of keeping him vertical. He hears the heavy shuffle of fabric on stone, and looks up to see Aziraphale dragging his own green mat into the narrow space between Crowley's pew and the one before it. He awkwardly wedges it into the gap and then shimmies onto it himself.

It must be uncomfortable, with only a thin layer separating Aziraphale from the cold ground, but he doesn't seem terribly affected, instead looking up at Crowley steadily from the awkward position. Crowley stares back, unblinking. Not an hour before, Aziraphale had been kneeling beside him, impossibly close as he'd dressed Crowley's wound. This, however, alone and facing each other quietly, feels strangely intimate, more so than anything else from the few weeks they've known each other. Too fast to give himself the chance to overthink it, Crowley snakes his arm across the gap to rest his hand on Aziraphale's hair, relishing the physical contact as his fingers sink into the soft, unruly curls.

"Goodnight, Aziraphale," he says, words slurred with the rising tide of sleep, and drifts off to the soft reply.


End file.
